


just making sure i'm never gettin' over you

by redlight



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Break Up, Breaking Up & Making Up, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Enemies, Jealous Keith (Voltron), Jealousy, Keith is a Mess, M/M, Metaphors, Possessive Behavior, Post-Break Up, Power Outage, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, a hot mess of a fic, i have no idea whats happening, ill-advised makeouts, implied lancelot, ive never done a multichapter holy hell, lance is a mess, rating will change later, sort of, theres an enemies to lovers tag but is there a lovers to enemies tag, this started in a youtube comment thread whoops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-07
Updated: 2017-10-07
Packaged: 2018-12-12 03:36:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11728683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redlight/pseuds/redlight
Summary: So, the thing is, Keithwantsto think they've broken up. Like, for real, it's done, it's over, fragmented, fractured, final, finished.Keith and Lance,Lance and Keith, except – get rid of thatpairingscheme, that cutesy mix-and-match system, that couple co-attachment. It's justKeith Kogane, on his own, the feisty drop-out loner, all by himself like he’d always fucking wanted.Keith really, really thought it was over.Heartbreak makes Keith mean, Lance craves attention more than love, and they both have a really unhealthy fetish for bad ideas.





	1. knew that i'd call you up

**Author's Note:**

> hahahahaha whoops this is super late. based on a fan edit bc im OBSESSED with them
> 
> anyway ive never really done a multichap before so;; i think i'll try to keep this to 4-5 chapters? we'll see lol.
> 
> fic and chapter titles from ["attention" by charlie puth](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HZQTJvOYd8E) (link to the edit lol)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith is sad, Lance shows up, and Keith has a bad, dumb, stupid idea.

So, the thing is, Keith _wants_ to think they've broken up. Like, for real, it's done, it's over, fragmented, fractured, final, _finished_.

Keith and Lance, _Lance and Keith_ , except – get rid of that _pairing_ scheme, that cutesy mix-and-match system, that couple co-attachment. It's just _Keith Kogane_ , on his own, the feisty drop-out loner, all by himself like he’d always fucking wanted.

And Lance, he’s off somewhere lightyears away, lightyears too far and big for Keith, with his pretty little head still held miles high and his shitty flirty smirk in place as he chats up _anyone_ that isn't Keith.

‘Cause Keith, he’s still stuck on barren desert ground after a rainstorm, trudging through mud and filth and clawing his way across miles of wet soil, on his hands and knees. Still waiting for someone like _Lance_ to push him facedown into the dirt, one more time, with all his smothering, _suffocating_ rainy-wet affection. Just for kicks, just for _fun_ – ‘cause that’s Lance McClain, he’s a spiraling hurricane of _fun, fury, and insecurity_ , tearing Keith down to make his own too-damn-needy self feel just a little _better_.

But the rainstorm is gone. And the desert sun is rising up to dry out its home, and soon enough Keith’s gonna _stop_ feeling waterlogged and _start_ feeling a harsh thirst itching at the back of his throat.

But, really, Keith thought it was _over_. Done with. Fragmented, final. A desert after midnight rain, finally warmed and dried up by the morning sun scorching anew.

It was over, and he’s getting over it.

When someone knocks at his door, quiet and polite at 11pm, Keith _finally_ trudges himself up from the couch for the first time today, braving the ice-cold flooring with his bare feet as he stumbles through his messy apartment. Shiro never visits without calling – never ever shows up this _late_ , not without at least sending Keith a text. Except, fuck, it's not like Keith’s got any real _friends_ to come knocking at his door. Keith’s older brother is his only fucking friend, which is kinda pathetic, yeah, but – well, it's super pathetic. Actually, totally, literally, seriously, completely _sad as fuck_.

So he's teething at his lips when he goes to answer his door, because he thinks it's _Shiro_. That Shiro is here to fuck with him, or to judge him, or that Shiro’s gonna take one look at Keith’s disheveled state and get that _fucking pitying look_ in his gun-gray eyes. That Shiro’s voice will soften, that Shiro will say something like, “ _hey, Keith, have you eaten yet? You need me to help with dinner or something?_ ” followed by a totally unsubtle, “ _I’m always here if you need to talk._ ”

Or, even worse, Shiro will smile sadly and wring his hands together and he’ll just mention the _fucking break-up_ without even trying to tiptoe around the issue.

So the doorknob feels blunt and harsh and cold against the palm of Keith’s sweaty-warm hand.

So he feels a dull coldness at the bottom of his stomach, where dead blue butterfly wings still shuffle and shift with the icy winds of faded affection and vivid bitterness.

So Keith hesitates to open the door.

Maybe Shiro had some sort of emergency and that’s why he couldn’t let Keith know. Maybe Shiro really _is_ just playing a stupid prank on him or something – which, granted, Shiro’s last prank was four years ago when Keith had just graduated high school and Shiro dumped a whole bucket of glue on his hair, snickering quietly with that all-too-innocent shit-eating grin on his face. Shiro hasn’t done anything like that for _years_ now, he’s grown out of it – but that still makes more sense than who _did_ show up at the door.

And, yeah. It wasn’t Shiro, ‘cause the universe utterly _despises_ Keith and his shitty choices.

It’s Lance.

‘Cause, of course. Why the fuck _wouldn’t_ it be Lance? What’s Keith ever done for the good of the cosmos?

So Keith just has to – stop and take a second.

Take a pause, deep breath, ‘cause it’s _Lance_ , showing up at his door, careening back into Keith at approximately 331.4 meters per second, all supersonic screeching and high Hertz hazards. Remain seated, keep all your limbs inside the vehicle at all times, ‘cause _warning_ , this is a high-speed roller coaster ride that includes sudden and dramatic acceleration, climbing, dropping, and backwards motion.

Sky-high, blue-eyed Lance, who’s supposed to be lightyears above Keith’s head, spiraling like a hurricane and rocketeering off to the far reaches of the stars. Pretty, obnoxious, sleazy-smiled but cute-eyelashed Lance. Lance, in some divine little white crop top that's starting to slip down one brown shoulder and tight, dark blue jeans, with his wrists drowning in pastel green, pink, and yellow friendship bracelets. Lance with the spaces under his eyes completely dark and puffy, with saltwater tracts hiking down his blotchy-red cheeks.

 _Warning_ – failure to follow the previous posted guidelines may result in major injury. Please do not get on this ride if you suffer any sort of heart problems, including high blood pressure, and also _total irredeemable agonizing heartbreak_.

Lance, with the shakiest smile, raises a trembling slim-fingered hand to give Keith a delicate little wave.

And Keith almost gets his own fingers caught in the door hinges.

He, uh, may or may not be suffering from that last thing about a heart problem.

“Hey,” says Lance, shuffling his feet, all breathy and raspy and _too goddamn fragile_. “I know you don't – ”

Keith scowls. Words flare out from his own cigarette-wrecked, tar-stained throat, involuntary and ashen and bitter. “What, you're expecting me to let you inside or something?”

Lance winces and takes a step back. “This looks really bad, doesn't it?”

Keith snorts, ducking his head so that his own tangled black hair falls into his eyes.

Maybe it's because Lance’s voice – usually loud, clear, and cheery – is all fucked up. Maybe it's because Lance’s shoulders shake just the tiniest bit as he breathes, and maybe it's because his cotton-candy-blue eyes are so cloudy, and maybe it's because his cheeks are so splotchy.

“Yeah,” says Keith, trying not to let his voice soften too much. “It looks pretty bad. Did you need anything…?”

Lance _shouldn’t_ need anything. He’d spent _hours_ making sure to clear all his stuff from Keith’s apartment.

Lance was _thorough_ , raiding through Keith’s closet for every set of overnight clothes he’d ever stashed there. Snatching back his blue toothbrush and winterfresh toothpaste for whenever he stayed over. Little trinkets like Lance’s photos, the pieces of decor Lance had insistently added once he’d seen how barren Keith’s place was, all those red and blue friendship bracelets Lance made for the two of them and all the leftover string, stuff like that. Lance probably could've gotten it all done in an hour, but he took his damn sweet time there, taking apart Keith’s home and deserting it all over again.

And Keith’s _definitely_ been missing a few sweaters ever since, but he’s never bothered to go back and ask Lance about it.

Anyway. Keith’s got nothing for Lance. Not now.

“I – ” Lance bites the inside of his cheek, rosy brown skin being pulled the slightest bit in. Keith can see the way Lance’s fingers pick at the hem of his top, where white fabric highlights soft, unmarred brown flesh and a trim stomach. “I guess I didn't need anything,” Lance finally says, teeth pressing into his lips now – shiny straight teeth, just a little bit stained from how much coffee and tea Lance drinks. “Sorry, Keith.”

“Did something happen?” Keith asks, letting the door swing open wider.

“Um,” says Lance, but his voice breaks off into a nervous giggle. “I’m sorry for dumping my shit on you.”

“You _decided_ to come here, so you can't be _that_ sorry,” Keith grouses. Lance tenses up again, eyes falling to the ground. Keith licks at his teeth nervously, rakes his eyes up Lance’s all-too-shivery form. “Did something _happen_ , Lance?”

“Maybe a little bit,” Lance finally admits, rubbing the back of his hand across his nose as though to try and cover his face, while his other hand pulls down at his shirt as though to cover more skin.

Keith taps his fingers against the doorframe. Climbing out of a moving roller coaster is probably a better idea than this.

“Come inside,” says Keith.

Standing outside in a raging thunderstorm holding a broken blue umbrella is a smarter idea than this.

“Are you sure?” Lance asks quietly, but Keith’s opening the door all the way.

Drowning himself in a bucket filled with wet desert sand is a much, _much_ more reasonable idea than _this_.

With a scowl, Keith steps away from the door, stalking back into his mess of a house. “Just get in here before you make me change my mind.” He throws a glance back, another look at those candy-blue eyes and that roller coaster smile, and the butterfly corpses scattered around Keith‘s insides start to shift once again. “Close the door behind you.”

So. Keith really fucking _likes_ bad ideas.


	2. tempest in a teacup, get unique

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lance would rather stare at Keith's horrific orange monstrosity of a carpet than look Keith in the eye. Also, thunderstorms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo i wanted to finish this chapter earlier but basically i didn't have access to my laptop and now im posting this on my dad's laptop at 5am w h o o p s
> 
> chapter title from ["headfirst slide into cooperstown on a bad bet" by fall out boy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R8toD5TP7W4) (lolol i still love their titles)
> 
> tbh shiro is the real star of this shitshow, i love his background shenanigans

“So, uh, you want a cup of tea, or somethin’?” Keith asks warily, just as another distant roar of thunder echoes from outside. The storm started just a few moments ago, but it's picking up pretty fast.

Lance startles at the question – or maybe the thunder; his sharp shoulders almost reaching his ears as he fixes Keith with this big, blue, wide-eyed look of terror.

Keith blinks at him.

Then Lance relaxes. Except, his shoulders relax _slowly_ , forcibly, and Lance scurries back into the couch, enough to be smushed into the sofa pillows, as though he's trying to purposefully _drown_ in them. His eyes are shining pretty bright – not like cheer or excitement or anything, it's something more like gleaming blue mania. “O-oh, um, I’m – it's okay, you don't have to do that.”

“Alright,” Keith says.

“Yep,” Lance says, pulling his knees up to his chest, bare feet brushing delicately against the sofa cushions. “Uh-huh.”

Keith licks at his teeth nervously.

So, thing is, Lance keeps looking outside the windows – watching droplets of rainwater slink down the glass as it accelerates from a light drizzle to a sudden, heaving downpour. If Lance isn't looking at the rain, he's looking at the dark cherry-colored floor, where laminate is starting to peel and crack, right behind the blotchy faded stains from when Shiro once spilled his nail polish remover over Keith’s floor. If Lance isn't looking at the floor, then he's looking at the cracks on Keith’s slightly discolored walls, at the empty hooks nailed into plaster, where pretty homemade paintings and framed family-and-friend pictures were once briefly hung up.

If Lance isn't looking at the _walls_ , then Lance is looking at Keith’s shitty carpet that has black and silver nail polish streaks down the left side – once again, _Shiro_ , back when he was still an irresponsible fuck. Which he grew out of. Hopefully. Shiro _says_ he grew out of it, so, yeah, Keith’s just gonna have to – take his word for that.

Anyway, if Lance isn't looking at Keith’s shitty carpet – seriously, it's the color of orange slime mold, Shiro’s friend Allura gave it to him to keep it in storage or something but it's _really_ just because Keith doesn't care about how horrible his house can look – Lance used to make a face about it every time he stayed over. Wrinkled his nose, huffed up his chest, put his slender hands on his slender hips and shook his head theatrically. “ _Seriously, Keith? Even_ you _think this thing is ugly as sin!_ ”

Lance sure doesn't mind looking at it now.

And if Lance isn't looking at the _carpet_ , he's picking at his own fingernails – short and jagged, bitten to the quick in a nervous habit Lance always used to say that he'd _stop_. Except, his fingernails are still broken-sharp and totally surrounded by hangnails and tiny red scabs, so, there's just another promise Lance can't/won't keep.

Is Keith being bitter?

Keith’s not fuckin’ bitter.

“So, what's going on?” Keith asks suddenly, and Lance _actually fucking jerks upright_ , tearing his gaze away from the rain-soaked windows, kicking one pillow down by accident as he gets his hand stuck between sofa cushions. Lance lets out a desperate, hysterical giggle.

Drama queen.

“Nothing!” Lance squeaks. “Nothing, nothing's goin’ on, I don't even know why I'm here, fuck, I'm _sorry_ – ”

Bright blue mania is back, vibrant and wet in Lance’s eyes as he tries to pry himself out of the sofa cushions, all jerky movements and flailing motions.

It's almost cute.

It's also _Lance_ , so it just makes Keith grind his teeth hard enough to hurt.

A flash of lightning outside, a low rumble of thunder.

“Seriously?” Keith spits out. “You – why the hell are you here, Lance? What'd’you mean you _don't know_?”

“I mean I’m being stupid,” Lance says stubbornly, glaring at the floor. His bottom lip is sticking out in the slightest bit of a pout, but his eyebrows are furrowed close together and he's crossed his arms across his chest. That kind of position makes people look defensive, standoffish, but it’s always made _Lance_ look like he's trying to hold himself together – makes him look like he's trying to keep his lungs from collapsing inside himself.

Matched with those shimmery wet eyelashes, and it makes him look like he _can't_ _stop_ the collapse.

So, there’s Lance, trying to keep himself whole with his trembling arms even though his eyes are red and puffy, and he's got this pouty little scowl on his face, and he’s still refusing to _look Keith in the eye._

Keith bites back the automatic “ _you're not stupid, stop saying you are_ ,” that rises up in his sore throat.

“Lance,” Keith snaps out – familiar name sticking to his teeth like over-sweet, over-chewed bubblegum.

Lance looks up this time, a frosty gleam in his eyes. “Can you just let it go, Keith?”

“ _You're_ the one who came to _my house_!” Keith hisses. “I'm not gonna let it go. Why the hell are you here?”

Lance pulls his long legs even closer to his chest. “Ugh, calm down.” He clears his throat, nonchalant, raises his eyebrow at Keith. “I – I just didn't wanna worry Hunk. He would've been – he’s too good for me, y’know? He's always been. And he, he _knew_ ,” Lance breaks off into a bitter chuckle. “He kept askin’ me if I was alright ‘cause he thought – he always thought something was _off_ ‘bout Lotor, but I still kept hangin’ out with him, ‘cept now…” Lance shrugs, one shoulder lifting up and letting white fabric fall down to reveal the faint freckles on his skin. He lets out a weary sigh, his voice turns cold. “Whatever. This isn't even any of your business.”

“It's my business ‘cause _you're in my house_ ,” Keith growls out – and, while his point is completely valid, his voice comes out near- _whiny_ and childish.

Also, who the fuck is _Lotor_?

Ugh. Doesn't matter.

Lance huffs, letting his bare feet fall to the shitty orange carpet, puts his hands on his hips and _glares_ up at Keith –

Oh, this is familiar.

The broken glass in Lance’s expression is hastily swept away, hidden under a gross orange rug – no more fragility. No more shipwrecked tear-stained trembling forced grin. Lance is really just an infuriated hurricane trapped in a tiny jar; a tempest in a teacup, a blizzard in a bottle. The _personification_ of making a big deal out of minuscule things.

Another bright-hot flash of lightning, another loud _boom_ of thunder.

So the air in the room goes from chilled, ice-cold and barren to _hot, wild, angry_.

Lance at his worse, but maybe at his best, too.

Just angry brine-soaked eyes and a scowl clinging to those pretty rosy-brown lips.

“You know what, Keith?” Lance snaps. “I _am_ in your house, and you let me in, so if you want me to leave, _I’ll leave_. All you have to do is tell me! But I – I don't need to tell _you_ the exact reasons that lead up to me being here, alright? It's _not_ your business.”

Lance huffs, but he deflates when he finally meets Keith’s eyes, letting out another bone-weary sigh. “I didn't want Hunk to worry if he saw me come home. And I _said_ I’d spend the night at Lotor’s place, but – ” Lance inhales shakily. “Guess I’m just lyin’ to Hunk again.”

With his toes, Keith nudges at the nail polish stains on his carpet, shuffling his foot through the ragged soft material. “You shouldn't do that. He just wants what's best for you. He's a damn good friend.”

“Too fuckin’ good for me,” Lance says quietly, looking at the nails on the wall – a specific spot, where there used to be a picture of Lance and Keith and Hunk and Pidge and Shiro, with their arms locked tight ‘round each other, grinning these dumb, stupid grins. A day at the amusement park. Oversized sunglasses falling off Pidge’s smirking face, Hunk wide-eyed and smiling with yellow flowers painted onto his face by Shay’s skilled hand, Shiro casually trying to stick a puff of cotton candy to the back of Keith’s head, with Keith too distracted to notice – Lance was trying to hide a giggle by pressing his lips against Keith’s blushing cheek.

It was a good picture – Allura took it, with slightly shaky hands from laughing too hard, so the picture was just a little blurry. Keith still has a copy saved on his phone.

Lance got it printed, so he got to take the physical copy.

Lance says, “Sorry, Keith.”

(He always _says_ that but he's _not_.)

Then, “I’ll still leave if you want me to.”

( _No_ , it's storming outside, Keith can't let him go – )

Then, “I really shouldn't’ve come here.”

(...No, Lance really shouldn't’ve.)

Then, _again_ , “I’m really sorry – ”

So Keith snarls and he steps forward, feet landing on the rug with a dull _thump_ – not quite loud enough to be a stomp but enough to startle Lance into meeting his eyes again.

“Stop sayin’ sorry when you _obviously_ don't mean it.”

Lance snarls, too. “ _You're_ not the one who gets to decide whether I mean it or not! You don't get to decide _anything_ about me anymore!”

Outside, the storm pounds on.

“You – ” Keith grits his teeth, feeling a nauseous spike thread stitches through the lower edge of his stomach. “I didn't decide anything about you – Lance, what the hell do you mean?”

Lance shuts his stupid, shit-talking, still-pretty mouth.

“Forget it,” he hisses.

“You always do this,” Keith says numbly. “Maybe I didn't see it before, but – you never tell anyone _anything_.”

“Maybe you didn't see it before,” Lance says lowly. “But sometimes you're a _huge dick_.”

Whatever spike of guilt that was stirring around Keith’s insides is just _scorched_ out of existence, like a moth flying into an oh-so-shiny, oh-so- _enticing_ candlelight and _burning alive_.

“And _you_ ,” Keith growls out, ignoring the shakiness of his voice. “Just bottle all your _bullshit_ up and blame it on _everyone else_ when you feel like shit.”

It takes a good few seconds, an icy little pause, and a shallow inhalation of breath before Lance says, “ _No_ , I don't. That’s – god, Keith, that's what _you_ do, I _hate it_ – ”

“That’s the first time _I’m_ hearin’ about it. You never _told me_ when something was wrong.” Keith huffs, drops to the shitty carpet and crosses his legs tiredly, sitting at Lance’s feet – like a fucking _dog._

Yeah, Lance, _just snap those delicate, pretty little fingers_ – Keith’ll bark, roll over, _come running_. Any kind of trick you _fucking want_.

Lance glares down at him.

Keith glowers back.

Fuck it.

“Who the fuck is Lotor?”

“Oh my _god_ ,” Lance groans. “Why are you always like this? Why’d’you always have to know _every single thing_ ‘bout _every single_ new person I talk to?”

“No, I don't,” Keith says stubbornly.

“Uh, _Rolo_? Nyma? Plaxum.” Lance starts counting them on his unsteady fingers. “ _Luxia_ , even though you met her girlfriend Florona.”

So, uh, Keith should probably be listening to Lance’s words – but he can't help but notice Lance’s fingernails.

His nails are bitten, yeah, but also slightly yellowed – not as bad as Keith’s, but, _ugh_ , Keith _really_ hopes Lance didn't pick up his wretched smoking habit.

**(** _If the habit ever did start, then it started like this – something like five months ago, when things were a little more okay._

_Lance takes a shivery little breath, eyes wet but dead-focused on the way Keith fumbles to open the bedroom window, pack of cigarettes in hand. And Lance’s swollen lips split into this lovely, giddy, fucked-out grin._

_“Really, mullet-man? Gonna take the cliché route?” His words are slurred together, just a little, and his eyes are fluttering shut in exhaustion – but Lance is always a little hyper after he gets fucked, so he keeps talking. “Gonna be that cool, edgy, heartbreaking anti-hero protagonist who fucks like a god and hates breathing properly?”_

_Keith snickers, and he rolls his eyes, even as he finally lights a cigarette with his slightly-shaky hands. “Hey, don’t knock it ‘til you try it.”_

_When Keith turns back, Lance is sitting on his knees, hands coiled in the bedsheets in front of him as he leans forward, his back arching prettily. Still all rosy-flushed and pliant on Keith’s bed, makes a spark of warmth flare up in Keith’s ribs, smoldering like cigarette ashes._

_“Wait, can I try it?”_

_Keith lets out a startled chuckle. “It’s a shit habit, Lance.”_

_Lance waves a dismissive hand at him, but his remaining arm shakes as it becomes his only support, and the effort has him falling face-first into the mattress with a yelp._

_“Just let me try,” Lance whines, raising his head just to bat his eyelashes at Keith. “C’mon, Keith? I’m sufferin’ from secondhand smoke as it is.” Then, with his voice pitched low, just a hint of a moan clinging to his words, he asks, so lovely and so nicely, “Please?”_

_Keith snorts and takes a deep inhale from that precious little cancer stick, savors the familiar burn in his chest, and then leans forward to give Lance an open-mouthed kiss._ **)**

 _...Fuck._ Keith’s a bad enough influence as it is.

“Jesus, Keith,” Lance continues on, brows furrowed, now teething at one yellowing nail - his index finger, but his whole hand curls in front of his mouth to do it. “You were even suspicious of _Hunk_ at some point, and – ” His eyes narrow, and he takes his hand away from his mouth to point an accusing finger at Keith. “ – and you’re doin’ that thing where you stop paying attention.”

“You’re kinda _greedy_ for attention,” Keith murmurs. Before Lance can start glowering at him again, Keith adds, “I was only suspicious of Hunk for like, five minutes, okay? It was the first time I met him, I couldn’t help it.”

“Five minutes too many,” Lance grumbles.

Another short silence. Keith runs his fingertips over worn carpet fabric and Lance starts teething at his bottom lip.

Then, with a voice like breaking sea glass, Lance asks, “Am I really greedy?”

Keith makes to reply, something totally stupid like _yeah, you’re greedy and you always take too much from me but sometimes I can’t help but like it –_ but then another strike of thunder cracks out from outside, much closer than before, shaking the windows and resounding through the floor.

Makes Lance flinch, makes _Keith_ jump, and Keith’s able to get one last look at the surprised blue in Lance’s eyes before the whole room plunges into darkness.

 


	3. look at us burnin' down in flames for kicks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Keith fucked Lance up – no, wait, _Lance_ fucked _Keith_ up. 
> 
> Whatever the case, the reverse is true, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guESS who's baCK FROM THE DEAD AND IS ABOUT TO DIE AGAIN BC SCHOOL IS FUCKING ME UP
> 
> omg this took. like. years i am so sorry omg. but like;;; thank you SO much for the positive response and kudos and comments!! it makes me so happy;; even if i dont reply to comments i still read them and giggle hysterically about them, and usually only dont reply bc i get too flustered and i dont know what to say. im kind of a socially awkward mess, even online? yikes.
> 
> anyway!! this chapter is. the longest so far. like its longer than the previous two chapters combined lol whoops. but also this is SUPER messy. so, uh -- yikes. hope its still decent? ill definitely be editing it more in the coming days, i was just really excited to post it, lol.
> 
> also, yO. that 5 chapter cap tho. hoOOOO boy these dummies are coming to a close thank god finally these unhealthy idiots
> 
> anyway, thank god for ["XO" by EDEN](https://soundcloud.com/iameden/x-o) bc this song kicked my ass with inspiration. also this is where the chapter title comes from; its!!! a good song!!! go listen

“Shit, d’you still have that one heavy-duty flashlight?” Lance says.

Which, uh, okay, Lance is being the practical one.

“I can get it,” Keith says. “You okay staying here?”

“Um – ” Lance is briefly illuminated by another flash of lightning coming through the windows, but it's not long enough for Keith to discern his expression. “I’ll be fine. Yeah.” He chuckles, then, quiet and half-hysterical.

Crack of thunder. Real, _real_ loud, this time.

Keith’s sofa actually _screeches_ across the floor a little bit, with how fast Lance stands up. “Okay, nuh-uh, nope, nevermind, I hate the dark, I hate thunder, and when you mix ‘em up together and leave me alone there, then _haha_ , no, I’m not doing that.”

“I thought you liked rain,” Keith says dumbly, squinting his eyes to try and make out Lance’s figure in the darkness. It takes some fumbling, but Lance’s hand lands on Keith’s nose, searching out the rest of his face and giving him a pat on the cheek.

“I do like rain,” Lance says. “And I can handle thunder to a degree, but blackouts are the _worst_. Let’s find that flashlight, Keith.” He gingerly pokes Keith in the nose, and after a few seconds of Lance murmuring under his breath, a spot of white light emerges from his phone.

“So,” Lance says. He looks washed out and faded in the bright white light – it really, really doesn't suit him, Keith thinks. Darkens the smudges under his eyes, makes his cheeks look pallid and accentuates the leftover redness from when Lance must’ve been crying. It's monster lighting, it's _telling scary stories in the dark_ lighting, like the weird kid who’s into occult shit brandishing a flashlight while surrounded by their terrified friends at a sleepover. Which, uh, that fits Lance pretty well, actually?

Keith stares, and then huffs under his breath as he picks at the threadbare carpet.

Honestly, Lance really looks good in sunshine, with the warm tint in his skin highlighted and some frizzy strands of his hair shining gold. Artificial light, both white LED and flickering yellow bulbs – it doesn't do much for him.

Keith, though – Keith just burns up in sunshine.

Lance shuffles awkwardly, a bare foot accidentally brushing against Keith's fidgeting fingers and sending a brief rush of electrical heat through his veins. “Uh,” Lance says. Pokes him in the chin. “You comin’ with, Keithy?”

Lance doesn't look great in white light, but his lips are still regrettably pretty and his eyes are still shining bright, as he leans down to talk to Keith. And the dead butterflies in Keith’s guts just don’t have the life to move anymore, but Lance’s fingertips are still as soft as ever as they brush over Keith’s cheeks and jaw. The touch still registers as _familiar_ in Keith’s overworked mind, instead of a sensible option like _danger_ , or one of those warnings that always show up on cigarette boxes, _smoking causes lung cancer, beware risk of addiction_ or whatever.

“Where?” Keith asks, his voice strained.

“You still keep your flashlight in your bedroom, right?” Lance deadpans. “We’ll camp out there.”

Last time Lance was in Keith’s bedroom, they were either screaming at each other loud enough to tear through their vocal chords, or fucking so roughly that the walls shook.

Something like that. Keith can't really remember.

 **(** _Except, the thing is, he really_ can _remember – Lance struggling to close a cardboard box full of his stuff. He’d only brought the one, and it’s honestly...really pitiful, to watch him struggle to close the flaps down, with tear tracks staining his cheeks and his eyes all red, chest still heaving with minuscule hiccups._

_Keith isn't much better, though. His knuckles slathered with a black-blue-reddening bruise, from punching the kitchen counter in frustration. The back of his throat burns hot and wet, and he keeps blinking a little too frantically, sea salt in his head and tear salt in his eyes._

_“Need any help?” Keith croaks out, leaning against the door frame. Lance’s shoulders shake, and he sits down on Keith’s bed, taking deep breaths, pulling his knees up to his chest._

_“Don't – don’t talk to me, Keith.” Lance inhales sharply. “Gimme a minute. I’ll be done soon.”_

_So Keith gave him a minute, then an hour, then Lance walked out and it's been days, weeks, months ever since._ **)**

Lance says, “Um, so. It's late.” They stop at Keith’s bedroom door, and Lance almost moves to pull it open – but he stops, hesitating, pulling his hand back. The phone light shakes with his movements.

Keith blearily shakes off the memories of Lance being _comfortable_ enough to open this door; smirking or giggling or heaving breaths as he pushed Keith up against the surface and fumbled with the doorknob, trying to open it even as Keith tugged at the roots of his hair and hiked his shirt up higher, running his fingers up soft brown skin.

Keith’s stomach lurches. He opens the door himself.

“Yeah?” Keith mumbles. _God_ , his voice sounds _tired_ – exhausted and roughed up like he got punched in the throat. “You can sleep here, I guess.”

“I’ll – ” Lance inhales shakily. “I’ll take the floor! Gimme your red blanket, it's the softest one.” Lance coughs awkwardly. “Or, well, don’t? It’s your stuff, man, do whatever you want, you don’t actually have to gimme anything – I’m just joking, y’know? You don’t have to – ”

It’s so dark, and the phone light isn’t shining on Lance’s face, so it’s not like Keith can watch Lance’s facial expression, or anything. But the obscurity just makes Lance’s voice sound even more wobbly, and it makes his audible gulp so much _more_ audible.

“Hey, Lance?” says Keith, stepping through the door frame.

“Yeah?” Lance breathes out. There’s a dull _tap-tap-tap_ jittering through Keith’s ears, and it takes a few seconds to realize that Lance is tapping his feet against the floor.

“Calm down.” Keith sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “You can sleep on the bed, if you want. I’ll take the couch.”

“Stay in the same room?” Lance asks.

“If you really wanna,” Keith says, then thinks, _then I want it too_.

He shakes it off. Lovesickness might not have a cure, but it's definitely treatable, and Keith definitely needs some sort of medication.

“It'll be like a slumber party,” Lance says weakly. “We can tell each other scary stories and everything.”

Yeah, Lance was _definitely_ that kid who liked to scare the shit out of everyone around him.

“You were that kid who tried to freak people out at sleepovers, weren't you?” Keith says, stumbling over to the bed. “With a flashlight held under your face and everything.”

Lance lets out a bark of laughter, slight and startled. “Uh. Yeah, I guess. I still do it to my little cousins and my siblings’ kids.”

“Wow,” Keith says, snorting. Under the direction of Lance’s phone-light, Keith is able to drag his feet over to his bedside table, flailing around with it until it opens and he can snatch the heavy flashlight out, turning it on with a flick of his thumb.

Where the phone light was white, the flashlight is orange, a beam of photons shot straight up at the ceiling in a pathetic imitation of the sun. A ring of light flares out through the whole room, illuminates it enough to see Lance’s face. Oh, it's still monster lighting, and maybe Lance can embrace his sea monster status – razor shark teeth made for eating hearts, sea-salt eyes searching and _lurking_ in the depths of the sea for his next victim, a new sailor to drag down into the bottom of the ocean –

– but maybe Keith is being overdramatic.

“So, uh,” Keith says, sitting down on his half-made bed, setting the flashlight down on the table and watching the light shake off the walls before it steadies. “This _Lotor_ guy – he’s good to you?”

Lance is looking at the flashlight. His voice sounds _tired_ – “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Keith. It's – whatever. Don't get all stuck on him.”

“I’m not stuck on him!” Keith immediately protests, because, alright, he’s definitely stuck on _someone_ but it's certainly not _Lotor_.

Lance rolls his eyes, and that little motion – being _brushed off_ , being _mocked_ – it makes Keith grit his teeth.

And then Lance says, “Honestly? He’s a total prick. But, like, I can be okay with that, y’know? It’s mutual.” He slumps down beside Keith, glancing up at the circle of light reflecting off the textured white ceiling plaster.

“Mutual,” Keith repeats, words sour in his mouth. “What's _that_ mean?”

Lance pouts. “It _means_ you ask too many questions ‘bout things that’re _none_ of your business.”

Keith _tries_ not to bristle, _tries_ to keep his temper in check. _Don’t bare your teeth, ‘cause you're not an animal_ – even if Lance treats him like a fuckin’ pet. _Don't tense up, don't lean closer, don't grab him by the front of his pretty shirt, don't drag him so close that his lips are in biting range –_

Even if Lance’s mouth is chewed raw and red from his own nervous habit. Even if Lance probably feels just as soft and tastes just as metallic-sweet as Keith can remember him being.

“You're staring at me,” Lance grumbles.

“ _You're_ staring at _me_.” And Keith knows it’s petulant but it's _true_ – Lance’s gaze is glued to Keith’s mouth, Lance keeps _looking_ at him with those flashlight eyelashes batting and his eyes narrowed with that blue flashfire rage –

“ _You’re_ a desperate, lonely fuck,” Lance counters, just as petulant – except it’s – it’s –

It’s true.

Keith’s – Keith’s always been the type who’s _better off alone_ , dumb edgy anti-hero protagonist like Lance always used to make fun of him for being. But – but Keith’s been alone for so long in his life, always been a feisty kid made of scorching sand and lack of life, always been _deserted_ , but then – then Keith met _Shiro_ , when he was a teenager in a new foster home and kept getting grins and waves from the walking-shitpost of a guy next door, _Takashi Shirogane._ And after Shiro, it was Allura, and after Allura, it was _Lance_ and Hunk and Pidge, and suddenly Keith had _friends_.

Teasing, joking, but strong and collected Shiro. Cute, excitable, could-kill-a-man-with-her-glare Allura. Beam of pure sunshine Hunk. Pidge the _amazing_ friend who was smarter than anything and also _very_ into Keith’s so-called conspiracy theories.

And – and Lance. Adorable, friendly Lance, obnoxious, competitive Lance, _breathtaking, breathtaking Lance_. As energized as blue stars with his own goddamn magnetic field, with his own gravity entwining frantically with Keith’s.

Keith was a lonely, deserted kid.

And then, loneliness was just a fading memory of the choking, burning taste of desert sand.

And Keith, Keith had starry blue eyes all to himself for a short while, Lance’s cold fingers clasped in his own overheated hands as Lance giggled about having poor circulation and Keith making up for it, and Keith wasn’t _deserted_ anymore – no, Keith was lightyears away, galaxy-high with Lance, Lance, _Lance_. A near-obsession rooted in his lungs, entwined around his tar-ruined bronchi; a blistering new component in his rushing blood cells; a flustering, consuming _want_ shaking his teeth.

They were Keith, and they were Lance, and they were rocketeering off to the far reaches of the stars, together.

And then – then Lance _left_. Went too fast, left Keith to plummet back down to Earth.

_Desperate, lonely._

It’s true. It’s true enough to make Keith’s pulse stutter and his tongue go dry and heavy and the taste of sand all comes rushing back.

And – and for some goddamn reason, because Lance works on an entirely different system of physics compared to Keith, Lance is quantum mechanics and inexplanations where Keith is general relativity and familiarity and maybe the two just _can’t_ be reconciled no matter how hard physics tries – but Lance operates on so many different rules that seem so arbitrary and _random_ , and so Lance _backs off_.

“Sorry,” Lance babbles, back straightening, eyes darting to his own hands, fiddling with pretty friendship bracelets. “Sorry, sorry Keith, that was – ugh. Uncalled for. I know that – that you haven’t been talkin’ to – to – ” Lance gulps, audible still, but diminished by the flashlight and the way his lips tremble. “To Hunk. I think Pidge tried to talk to you.”

“Pidge wants nothing to do with me,” Keith huffs, ‘cause Pidge hasn’t shown up in weeks, no matter the messages left on his phone, but Lance is –

Oh, shit, well, Lance is mad again, pressing his face close to Keith’s – “Keith, what the fuck, Pidge is your _conspiracy buddy_ , I’ve been dealing with her moping ass for _weeks_ ‘cause you won’t call her back, _I’m_ the one who’s supposed to be moping – !”

“What?”

“ _Keith_.” Lance growls in frustration. “Pidge _loves_ you, man, she’s not gonna ditch you ‘cause I can’t get over – get over – whatever. And Hunk, Hunk’s a good guy, such a good guy, he’ll take you back.”

“He hates me,” Keith tries.

Lance runs his slim fingers through his own hair and _tugs_ , exasperated, ruffling that brown hair up even more, and _what the fuck Keith shouldn’t be thinking about Lance’s thing for hair-pulling –_ “Oh – c’mon, look at me.” Slim fingers grasping at Keith’s _jaw_ , cold and clammy against his hot skin. “Hunk and Pidge – they're _good people_ , too good for me. _You’re_ too good for me, honestly – maybe that’s why I always forget how much of a _wreck_ you are.”

“I’m surprised you’d forget,” Keith practically wheezes. Lance raises an eyebrow, leans even closer – and this is _bad_ because Lance is on his _bed_ again, Lance is so close that he’s all Keith can _breathe_ and his touch is spiraling across Keith’s skin, and Keith is _drowning_ all over again. Drowning in wet, wet desert sand, smothered by sunshine –

“You really shouldn’t’ve come here,” Keith breathes out, voice wrecked. “Just tell me, okay? Why d’you come here?”

Lance blinks, eyes wide. “It's stupid.”

Keith frowns. “It's still a _reason_.”

Lance nods, unexpectedly agreeable for just an instant, knees touching Keith’s, his breath fanning out over Keith’s nose.

“So, like,” Lance hums, his voice low and weary. “Me ‘n’ Lotor got into a fight, okay? A bad one.” A bitter laugh rises behind his words. “What else can you expect from me? I'm always _like this_ , I dunno why I always – always pick fights.”

Keith – kinda blanks out, because, because –

There’s still that wreck of addiction that spirals through his lungs – _cigarettes and Lance_ – still that mess of want that lurks in his throat. And Keith thinks about Lance’s red-splotched-bruised cheeks and icewater eyes _and and and_ –

Anger tightens up around his lungs and he can barely _breathe_.

“Did he hurt you?” Keith rushes out. “ _Lance_ , did he – ”

“Whoa, Keith.” Lance chuckles, but it’s half-hysterical and weak. “Calm down. It’s whatever.”

“You’re _crying_ ,” Keith counters. “You were crying, it’s not – it’s not whatever, Lance.”

And Keith doesn’t know who this guy is, doesn’t actually _know_ who Lance is with, now. But there’s something – something in his throat, stuck and burning hot, when he thinks about someone else’s hands on Lance, someone _else_ keeping starry eyes to their self.

“I wasn’t crying,” Lance grumbles.

“You were,” Keith says, a bleary, rageful calm settled over his head. “You were, and I swear to god, I’ll hunt that guy down for you, Lance, he _hurt you_ , didn’t he? And you’re – you don’t deserve that – ”

“Keith, stop it – ”

“ _You’re too good for that, Lance_.”

 _Calm down_ , Lance said.

But any pathetic semblance of calm, it _fractures_ – ‘cause Lance is shaky, broken sea glass, and he _always_ snaps and splinters and shatters.

“I hate you,” Lance suddenly chokes out, voice wet. “You won’t talk to our friends and you keep _staring_ at me like you still want me and – you’re the _worst_ , and you keep _saying my name_ , you’re the worst – ” Something frosty and furious flares up in Lance’s voice, just for a second, a brief flicker of ice so cold it _burns_.

“Keith, you fucked me _up_ , badly,” Lance rasps out, flashlight shining in his reddening eyes, and then he presses a haphazard kiss to Keith’s lips.

Somehow, it barely registers.

 _Keith, you fucked me up_.

This isn’t true. Because Lance, Lance, _Lance_ fucked _Keith_ up, _badly._

Sea glass snaps, storm clouds crackle, desert sand scatters, and Keith _breaks._

Lance goes down easy when Keith pushes him. Keith spreads him out against half-made bed covers, and Lance even lets out this all-too-familiar _gasp_ and it drives Keith _crazy_. The butterflies in his stomach are buzzing at a high, head-pounding frequency, flitting up into Keith’s ribs and tangling their gossamer wings in the ridges of his vertebrae, leaving insect parts and organs scattered and clinging to his bones.

Blue butterfly wings catch in Keith’s throat, his brain, his heart – and his body just isn’t gonna _work_ properly, not anymore, never again. Not with flutterflies infesting his guts, not with bugs in his head.

Keith pulls Lance’s wrists high above his head, nudging friendship bracelets up and aside with his thumbs. He’s pressing down on each radial pulse to create one frantic, irregular heart rate. An arrhythmia that twitches and flinches against Keith’s grip, heartbeats fluttering in time with the hummingbird-flitter of Lance’s wet eyelashes, flared gold in the flashlight. Blue irises afire with artificial sunshine.

Lance’s shoulders shudder softly – a tiny little hiccup ripples out of his fragile throat, as though something went wrong with the oxygen in his lungs, as though there's brine flooding his trachea.

That hiccup gets stuck in Keith’s brain, grafted and glued inside his mind and making sure he can’t ever claw it out, no matter how hard he tries. “Lance?”

“‘M sorry,” Lance says again, with that _goddamn_ little _hiccup_ still clinging to his pitiful words.

Keith needs to bite down on his tongue to keep from _shouting_ at Lance, _shut the fuck up_ – and he counts down, _ten-five-four-three-two-one_ ‘cause Shiro always says that Keith can be a temperamental fucker and sometimes he needs to take a good few seconds to calm his shit.

But Keith’s voice is still stained with a growl when he says, “ _Stop repeatin’ that_.”

When Keith tightens his grip – almost bruisingly hard – Lance flinches, his wrists starting to strain against Keith’s hold. Keith loosens his hold immediately, but he keeps clutching at Lance’s wrists like he’s got no safety belt and he’s free-falling down a drop tower.

“Just keep going,” Lance grits out, his fingertips pawing at the back of Keith’s hands as he shifts his hips against Keith’s – it all makes Keith’s blood flare up with hot choking smoke, tastes like cotton candy blue and cigarette ash on his lips.

“Listen,” Keith tries, his voice quieter. “Lance, I’ll stop if you want me to – ” He starts to back away, but Lance _wrenches_ his hands from Keith, throwing his arms around Keith’s shoulders and dragging him back down.

“No, wait, don't stop – !” Shiny yellow-blue eyes pleading, lips pursing and pouting. “Keith, please.”

“What do you – ” Maybe this is the wrong question, but it's _direct_ and Lance needs to answer for his crimes, so Keith asks, his voice breaking, “What’d’you _want_ from me, Lance?”

Lance huffs, suddenly pulled away from being totally shipwrecked into becoming the sea monster himself. “Convince me.” His voice is so close to being _sob-ruined_ , though, and that fire in Keith’s stomach whirls dangerously. He’s not mad at _Lance_ , necessarily, except he kind of is, but he’s mad at _Lotor_ , too, and it makes his chest heave.

Keith grits his teeth. “Convince you to _what_?”

Lance looks him dead in the eye, lips chewed near-raw, eyebrows furrowed. “Why I shouldn't go runnin’ back to Lotor.” At Keith’s growl, Lance snorts. “See? You’re too – too fuckin’ _fixated_!”

“You said it yourself, he's an _asshole_ , Lance, he hurt you,” Keith hisses – and it's fuckin’ obvious, isn't it? Lance _knows_ that his shiny new fuckbuddy is a total tool, that’s why he’s _here_ , that's the goddamn game he's playing with Keith, Lance can't _not_ know, he's _not dumb_ , even if he pretends he is, sometimes.

Lance says, “Well, w-well, I’m an asshole too, aren't I?”

Oh.

Okay then.

“You’re _not_ ,” Keith says, a dull rage sliding in between his teeth, making his mouth fill with static and bad word choice. “You keep talkin’ ‘bout – ‘bout Hunk being _too good_ for you, ‘bout Hunk and Pidge – ” _and somehow **me**_ “ – being too good, but, Lance, _you're too good_. Lotor doesn't deserve you.”

“Right,” Lance says, glancing at Keith through dark-as-night, long-as-light-years lashes. “Yeah? Y-you're not just sayin’ that?”

“I'm not just sayin’ that,” Keith whispers.

“That’s _funny_ ,” Lance snaps. “You’ve said t-that ‘bout a _lot_ of people in my life, Keith, _baby_.”

Keith’s heartbeat damn near stops – his stomach’s shaking up and down his body and the length of his esophagus feels _slick_ with sickness, like that time Shiro dared him to eat a whole pound of cotton candy and then dragged him onto the featured roller coaster of the amusement park.

So Keith _really_ doesn't like amusement parks.

So Keith’s throat is very, very dry. “Have I?”

And then, of course, there's the _outrage_ barely blazing in Lance’s eyes, shining in the glare of the flashlight – the kind of fire that's so hot it's blue, the kind of heat you find only in lightning and star plasma.

Another tone of thunder shakes the windows.

“You have,” Lance mumbles. “You – jealous _jerk_.”

The lights flicker on for half-second, illuminates Lance’s pink cheeks and angry eyes in full, for just a _second_ , then it all shuts off again and there’s only flashlight orange reflected in sea-black irises.

“Fine,” Keith says numbly. “I am a jealous jerk. _And_ I’ll convince you.”

“See, Keith,” Lance drawls, tilting his head back and letting yellow light shine across his throat, lets his hair shine gold against Keith’s too-gray bedsheets. “That’s an impossible task I gave you. Y’know, for the f-fun of watching you try and f-fail? But I’m tellin’ you right now, that _no_ , you probably _shouldn’t_ try, ‘cause it’s dumb and it’s bullshit and I’m sick of trying, too.” Lance thumbs the back of both of Keith’s hands, bitten nails scraping slightly along his flesh. “I mean, I guess you – you could try. But I guess you could fuck me, too. Or, like, just tell me what a – a horrible person I am. That’s fun. I guess you could do a lot of things.”

“I don’t get you,” Keith breathes.

“I’m kinda the w-worst,” Lance says. He’s not looking at Keith, gaze focused on the ceiling. “I shouldn’t’ve showed up, ‘cause I knew it’d fuck you up. But I wanted to, and I wanted to fuck you up, so I did.”

“Fine,” Keith says. “ _Fine_.” His voice is all throat-sore and glass-shattered again, ‘cause maybe –

‘Cause maybe Keith just _gives the fuck up_ , maybe he’s just gonna go ahead and stand outside in lightning storms with his broken blue umbrella, gonna take his safety restraints off these stupid, vomit-inducing amusement park rides.

“You’re the _worst_ ,” Keith snaps. “Lance, you’re the worst, you – you’re fuckin’ _greedy_ and selfish, y-you _asshole_ , and you left me alone, L-Lance, you left me _alone_ and now Hunk and Allura won’t talk to me and I b- _barely_ have the nerve to see Pidge anymore and you took apart my apartment and all I can think of is the empty, empty – t-the fuckin’ _empty space_ you left me with!”

“Uh-huh,” Lance says, and it’s like he’s trying to be smug but _god_ , that smile is so fake, so messily stitched-on with a shaky hand and fraying thread. “I’m the worst.” And his lips tremble and his thumbs stop caressing Keith’s hands.

“I’m the worst, too,” Keith finally breathes out, his chest drained of anger and his eyes stinging just the tiniest bit. His throat is wrecked and his heart is ruined even worse. Before Lance can turn his head to the side, Keith presses their foreheads together. “I’m a jealous fuck, I’m too fuckin’ possessive, I think I used to scare you sometimes.”

Lance blinks, stunned. “Keith – ”

“And sometimes I loved it when you were greedy,” Keith continues, because he’s actually throwing sanity off the train car right now, killing it off with velocity and inertia and leaving its corpse to rot beside the tracks. “You know that? I liked it, I _liked_ it when you took and took and _took_ ‘cause I loved being the only one you wanted to take from, _I liked it_ , and – ”

He chuckles roughly, presses an all-too gentle kiss against Lance’s forehead, feels soft skin flinch minutely against his lips. “I don't like it anymore, but you’re only happy when you have everything and I’m only happy when you are.”

Lance takes a shivery little breath. “Keith?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m gonna be greedy again, just one more time. Last – l-last time, I promise.”

And Keith can only say, “Yeah, okay.”

Lance bites his lip, eyes fragile, heartbeat still thrumming so fast beneath Keith’s thumbs.

“Kiss me,” Lance murmurs. “Fuck me, fuck me _up_.” Fragility disappears like a switch has been flipped, and Lance’s eyes start gleaming again, with cold, desperate, blue-blue- _blue_ mania. “Gimme what I _want_ , Keith.”

And Keith can only do exactly what Lance asks for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo so i think theyre gonna fuck next chapter lol

**Author's Note:**

> [hit me up on tumblr!!](https://redlights-in-space.tumblr.com/)  
>  also i got a [twitter](https://twitter.com/REDSPACELIGHTS) so like plz talk to me bc i really want friends


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